The Devil's Playground
by The Fictionist
Summary: AU. The Devil's Playground was the most exclusive nightclub in London, if not all of Europe. So, frankly, Harry wasn't entirely sure how he came to be bathed in its flawlessly concocted ambiance with music pounding in his ears, and an entirely delicious drink cold against his palm. But it had something to do with the deaths.
1. The Devil's Playground

_A/N: I'm so sorry. Sometimes I get insane ideas..._

* * *

The Devil's Playground was the most exclusive nightclub in London, if not all of Europe.

So, frankly, Harry wasn't entirely sure how he came to be bathed in its flawlessly concocted ambiance with music pounding in his ears, and an entirely delicious drink cold against his palm.

But it had something to do with the deaths.

The invitation had simply turned up one day. Handwritten, on card that would make the finest wedding invitations look cheap. It smelled of something indefinably enticing.

Harry wasn't normally one for clubbing, much preferring pub crawls where he could hear himself think and enjoy a few reasonably priced pints and good conversation. Even he had to admit, however, that this was bloody impressive.

He carefully weaved his way through the crowd, wishing that he had Ron or Hermione here. Any familiar company would do. He sat down at one of the sofas in the lounge area, and took a nervous sip, scanning the room for his … client.

The whole place practically breathed intimacy, with discreet dark corners that somehow seemed more private than sordid as they might do elsewhere.

There was a heady sort of aroma in the air, just like the scent on the envelope.

He was sat there for five minutes, before a woman approached him. Tumbling dark hair, scarlet lips, and bold gleaming eyes like some great cat.

"Come with me. He will see you in the VIP room," the woman murmured.

His legs still felt a little jellied, but he got up calmly enough. The music was muffled in the VIP room, and he couldn't help but be aware of the envious eyes tracking his movements as he stepped in.

It took him a moment to see the man, but when he did, he failed in not staring. His insides swooped.

"You …" his voice went hoarse.

"Hello, Harry. It's a _pleasure_ to see you again, even under such unfortunate circumstances."

It started maybe half a year ago, with too many drinks on his 21st birthday.

"You sent the invitation?"

It ended with sharp, sweet kisses dotting his throat, with his heart feeling like it was going to burst out of his chest, and a voice like honey caressing his senses. Well, it was supposed to end there. With him lying there feeling like he could die from pleasure.

Since then, the dreams lingered. Snatches of a sensuous mouth, of dark eyes in the night that seemed to flash a peculiar scarlet in certain angles, of a face classically handsome in a way that would make even angels weep.

It had always made a decent sort of anecdote, when such things came up.

All he'd ever got was a name – 'Riddle.' It had seemed fitting at the time, and even more so now to come face to face with the man here, of all places and scenarios.

"Were you expecting someone else?" The bastard had the audacity to seem amused, and rose slowly. "Let me get you a drink before we start."

"Start?" Harry absolutely did not squeak. Did not imagine all the things they could start, all the hazed promises whispered huskily in his ear. Riddle looked far too knowing, even as he raised a cool brow.

"You are a private investigator, yes? You contacted my secretary regarding recent disappearances?"

Right.

"Right. Yes – yes I am, uh, sir. And I did."

"Sir," Riddle repeated, with a hum. He definitely seemed amused now, practically purring the honorific out.

Harry nearly gritted his teeth, cleared his throat and sat down for a more professional front.

"You're rather young for a private investigator," Riddle continued.

"You're rather young to be Lord Voldemort."

Over the course of the last several weeks, he'd had numerous clients approach him in regard to a series of disappearances, and even deaths, occurring throughout the London area, many being linked to night clubs, highbrow and less so.

The Orchid Lounge. Wonderland. Temptation. The Siren's Kiss.

It hadn't taken Harry long to figure out the potential link between these popular clubs, were that they were all owned by Lord Voldemort Corporations.

He had to admit that he'd never expected to have slept with the man though. That was a curve ball.

"I'm older than I look, I assure you." A small smile flittered briefly over the other's lips, distracting Harry's attention. He wanted to kick himself. He was a professional, damn it. Then the smile vanished, as the man leaned back, taking a sip of his drink – eyes fixed on him. "So, how exactly is it that I can help your investigation, Harry?"

His insides swooped all over again with the way his name fell from Riddle's mouth. Was that normal?

"Have you been alerted to anything suspicious?" Harry leaned forward. "Or does anyone perhaps have a vendetta against you or your company, which would cause them to target your businesses?"

"It's possible," Riddle waved a hand. "It's a competitive industry. I have many rivals who would be more than happy to see me fall to ruin. I can provide you with a list, if that would help. You have my full co-operation, providing I have your full discretion. I'd rather not lose customers."

"People are dying."

Riddle raised his brows.

"And you have my full co-operation. I can give you a tour now, if you think you'll find evidence. Or…" the man rose smoothly, taking a few slow steps towards him, "I can have some more drinks brought in, and you could make your night more worthwhile."

Harry's mouth ran dry. His head tilted back, as Riddle's arms braced on the back of the sofa either side of him.

"I'd hope you're not trying to distract me, Mr Riddle."

"Would you like the full tour then?" Riddle replied, gaze dipping over his mouth.

Harry half wanted to accuse the man for never telling him that he was Voldemort, but given the circumstances of their meeting such a comment was ridiculous. Even if they hadn't been rather … preoccupied, it wasn't the type of conversation that necessarily came up. It hadn't been a matter of evasion, he was sure.

And what would he have done, if he knew, anyway? Not done it because his one night stand happened to be one of the richest and most powerful men in London?

… well, when it was put that way…

"I'll take the tour. If there truly is no evidence and you haven't seen anything, then it won't take too long, will it?" Harry dared, staring back. Their gazes locked for a moment, before Riddle straightened just as gracefully, leaving the space of air cold around him.

"As you wish."

* * *

Harry was actually a professional.

He insisted that to himself as, just over an hour later, he found himself thrown against the wall of the VIP room, with Riddle closing the gap between them. Lips claimed his, hands tightening around his wrists and pinning them above his head.

The want had been growing inside him from the second he stepped into Riddle's proximity. Searing, startling, blood-rushing want that hovered on the edges of his bones even as he carefully had a discussion with the bartender over the possibility of spiked drinks.

"So, uh, how old are you actually?" he couldn't help asking between breaths. Riddle laughed, nipping at his lips.

"How old do I look?" the bastard teased him, eyes gleaming. It was dizzying, those kisses, and a hand slipped just as quickly beneath his shirt, gliding over heated skin. Riddle was cool to the touch, but seemed to be growing warmer every second.

Harry had forgotten that; the chill of him.

Hips ground against his, and the question of age disappeared to irrelevance. Riddle obviously couldn't be that ancient. He looked to be about Harry's age!

He kissed back, fiercely, before Riddle's mouth trailed to his neck, latching on and sucking. Harry suspected it would be marked a blooming purple in the morning.

"You're lovely," Riddle murmured, pausing in his ministrations as Harry's head tipped back once more with a soft gasp. "I could just eat you up, Harry." Breath puffed along his throat, nose trailing along the line of his jugular.

Harry laughed again, feeling giddy.

"We're in the middle of a murder investigation!"

"All the more reason to appreciate the finer details of life." Cooler air hit his flushed skin as his torso was deftly bared, Riddle seeming to find all the most sensitive spots even faster than he had last time as his mouth dipped once more. Harry shivered, reaching out for the expensive suit in turn.

What did a double one night stand even mean or become?

A moan slipped breathless out of his mouth, his trousers straining.

Normally, it was in his nature to be dominant, and certainly to reciprocate the pleasure in some manner. Riddle made it so easy to get swept away and tangled up in lust, to the extent that doing anything but taking it required more effort than it should. Like he could quiver and crumble more easily.

He pushed forwards, until Riddle's knees hit the sofa from earlier, making him sit as Harry straddled his lap. At some point, he'd lost his trousers too. Riddle still seemed far more dressed and less disheveled in comparison, though the red swell of his lips seemed obscene with the force and press of kisses.

Had this happened, last time, too? It was a little blurry, admittedly. But he was far more sober this time.

"My turn," he said, pressing his hand to Riddle's mouth as the man leaned forward to kiss him again. The other's eyes flickered briefly with surprise, even darker than before with hunger.

A hand curved around his back, pulling him closer on Riddle with a hand slipping to his arse. He groaned as the friction surged through him at the roll of Riddle's hips, and the man took the opportunity to press two fingers into his mouth.

"There's a good boy," Riddle breathed, fingers rubbing against his tongue. Harry nipped at the fingers in response, receiving a snort. "Feisty as ever, aren't you?"

Harry hummed, eyes gleaming wickedly as he moved his head carefully, tongue lathing, immediately seeing Riddle's pupils dilate to an impossible amount. He took the opportunity to find a new occupation for his mouth, ravaging the man's throat and counting it a success to get him the rest of the way out of his clothes, groaning with desire.

He paused at the lust-filled but undeniably considering look he found he was on the receiving end of.

"What?"

"It's nothing." A truly sinful smirk crossed the man's face. "I'm just thinking about what I'm going to do with you. What do you think?"

Harry coloured.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

He claimed Riddle's lips for his own, feeling the laughter rumble all the way through him, as the music throbbed outside the door.

He ended up riding the man, teasing him with shallow thrusts, with his fingers gripping Riddle's sides tightly to hold him still. The other's skin felt searingly hot against him now. The world was spinning, as fingers clenched in his hair. Praises offered in his ear.

When he came to himself again, he was a mess of sensation, suddenly cold. He felt blissed out to the point of shakiness from his climax, head pressed into Riddle's neck where it had sagged, as fingers stroked through his hair still, soothingly.

"Deep breaths," Riddle crooned, hips thrusting up again apparently just to see Harry squirm and gasp with helplessly oversensitization. Harry was trying to remember at which point he'd stopped being the one in control of the situation.

But he felt exhausted, too exhausted to even lift himself up. Riddle looked positively radiant. His vision hazed, before righting itself a little as a softer kiss was pressed to his lips, his chin captured between Riddle's forefinger and thumb.

"That's it, just sleep it off." That smile crossed the man's lips again. "I'll see you again soon enough."

When he woke up in his own bed, he only had the vaguest memories of how he got there.

* * *

The bodies, when they were found, never had any valid cause of death. Or, at least, they never had anything explainable.

The closest signs were those of severe drug withdrawal, especially with the blown pupils and dehydration, which was why Harry had been so eager to question the bartenders about possible drinks spiking. But even then there had been no definable substance or toxin in the victim's systems – nothing that couldn't be linked just as easily to attraction or arousal.

It was maddening.

His best bet was still some form of drug.

The clubs themselves were either coincidence, because something of the clientele attracted – or it was something to do with Riddle. A vendetta, perhaps.

He scanned through the subtly scented list, and tried not to think about the man it reminded him of.

He failed. Utterly. He couldn't get 'Lord Voldemort' out of his head, even less now than after their first one night stand. Oh, he'd manage to concentrate on his work for a while, but then inevitably a stray thought about the man would slip in.

Of course, Riddle was very attractive, but _still_. Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Just the thought of the man's mouth made heat plunge into his stomach.

It had been almost a week since he'd seen the bastard.

_Concentrate._

He got himself more coffee, to ward off lingering tiredness. He had the horrible feeling that he might be coming down with something.

* * *

The line outside the Devil's Playground went all the way down the street and around the corner, with people begging for a chance to get inside.

It was difficult to even get close to the door.

"I need to see Riddle," he said – then again, louder, when the bodyguard didn't hear him. The man gave him a dismissive, dull sort of look.

"Do you have an appointment?" It was obviously mockery over a genuine question, and Harry's jaw clenched.

"Will you at least tell him I came by? Harry Potter."

Harry loathed the pitying look he got and, for the first time, he couldn't help but wonder if a lot of people came clamouring at the door for the man's attentions. If Riddle fucked anyone in his clubs who took his fancy. He remembered, now, that he'd wound up in Wonderland on his 21st.

He tried not to let the thought bother him, though awfully and pathetically it made something spasm inside his gut and since when the hell was he that guy? Especially over some bloke he'd met twice, however gorgeous?

"I'm a private detective," he felt the urge to add. Just so that they didn't get the wrong impression.

"Harry Potter. Got it. We'll pass it along."

Harry couldn't say he was convinced as the man rolled his eyes and turned away from him to the shunting crowd.

* * *

It was, therefore, an extreme surprise when Riddle turned up at his small rented office the next day. It seemed strange to even see the lord in clear light, and daytime. He was wearing dark shades, which he tucked into his pocket as he stepped in.

Harry froze where he was previously absorbed in his files and his pounding headache.

"You wear glasses," Riddle noted, as a casual form of greeting. "Huh. They suit you." He seemed to all but glide over to the small, cramped desk, reaching out and sliding the thin round frames off of his face. Harry scowled.

"Yes, I wear glasses. So could you give them back? You've gone significantly fuzzy."

"I still like your contacts. It's a shame to hide such pretty eyes, as cute as the glasses are." The glasses were nonetheless slid painstakingly back into place, the touch lingering on his cheek.

Harry cleared his throat, leaning back, even as colour rose on his skin again, damnably. The world sharpened to focus once more, the weight of Riddle's scrutiny with it as the man smiled at him.

"Can I help you with something?" Harry asked, automatically.

"I don't know, can you?" Riddle leaned on his desk. "Crabbe told me that you came looking for me at the Playground. How's the investigation coming along?"

"They can't pinpoint the cause of death," Harry frowned. "It's strange. I've never seen anything like it. It's like they just … withered."

"Sounds dreadful. What are you going to do about it?"

"Keep looking for leads," he replied. There was little else he actually _could_ do. "If I could only figure out the cause of death, narrowing the suspect list down would be so much easier. I can't find any connection to anyone on that list you mentioned." He glanced at the man. "It was nothing important. I just thought you might want an update, you know, generally."

"I'll make sure Crabbe lets you in next time," Riddle promised, giving him a grin that didn't quite seem appropriate to an update. Harry rolled his eyes.

"You're incorrigible. Do you do this a lot?"

"Do what a lot?" Riddle's head tilted. "Fuck people in my VIP room?"

"… yeah."

"Would it bother you if I did?"

"I couldn't care less," Harry's chin jutted up. "I figure what you do in your own time is your business, so long as it's not hurting anyone. I'm just … well, it's another possible motivation, isn't it? Jilted lover? You've probably messed with some powerful people. It's not like they let just anyone into the Devil's Playground. Do you have a list of regular attendees that I could take a look at?"

"The Orchid Lounge, let alone the Devil's Playground, if that's what you're asking, are known for their exclusiveness, discretion and confidence. My clients pay well to party in privacy. I would be betraying their trust to give you the lists, Harry."

He realized suddenly, too, that he still didn't know Riddle's first name. On most documents, he was 'Lord Voldemort'.

Harry vowed to look it up.

"People are dying," he said again, instead. "Surely you're betraying their trust further by not doing everything you can do to guarantee their safety? It's not going to go unnoticed forever."

Riddle was silent for a moment.

"Do you do all your work alone?"

"Huh?" Harry's brow furrowed at the change in topic, before he shrugged. "Largely. My friend, Ron, in the police academy, will lend a hand occasionally. My other friend, Hermione, studies Law. So sometimes I consult her too. But yeah, I guess. Why?"

"Aren't you concerned about trouble? Poking your nose somewhere that you shouldn't?"

"What's life without a little danger?" Harry countered, though something lurched a little inside him. But his insides had been rolling, with a distant shivering sort of nausea, for the last day or so anyway. Getting stronger by the minute. "Believe it or not," he forced a grin, "I can look out for myself."

"You don't look well." Riddle pressed a hand to his forehead. The touch was mercifully cool, to the extent that Harry wanted to lean into it. "I hope you're not overtaxing yourself."

"I'm fine." He resisted the urge to snap that it was none of Riddle's business.

"Maybe I could make you feel better…"

"You know I'm working, right?" Yet, Harry laughed. Really, Riddle truly was insatiable. The hand smoothed back through his hair, and the man craned the rest of the way to kiss him across the table again, slowly. Harry opened his mouth to protest, with a huff, but Riddle took the opportunity to deepen the kiss until Harry was biting back a moan again and he was half hauled across the table in turn.

His eyes flickered a little, glazed. The want, the _need,_ seemed to have erupted fully in his chest again. He was already half hard. His head spun with it.

"Let me take care of you, Harry," Riddle murmured, holding his gaze, voice low and honeyed again. Coaxing. Before teasing once more. "If you're busy, I'm sure I can make it quick." One hand remained on the back of his neck, the other pushing his files and papers aside.

"The walls here are thin as heck. This isn't your VIP room."

This was insane. Since when did this become his life? Riddle rounded the table, to where he was still sitting.

"Then I'll have to help you if you can't keep yourself quiet." A hand slipped down, stroking him through his growing feebler excuses until he was grinding forward into Riddle's touch again, groaning.

His bones seemed to ache less, the headache fading. He felt better than he had in days.

That time, he ended up bent against the table, legs splayed with an obscenely expensive tie stuffed into his mouth.

It was only with the growl of "mine" in his ear, that he started realizing that this definitely wasn't one-night-stand level anymore.

* * *

Three days later, and Harry felt worse than ever.

He was throwing up, and it felt like someone had a lit a fire in his brain. It was eating and burning him up alive. His hands were trembling, and … well, even in what could only be fever dreams, he couldn't stop thinking about Riddle.

But he also didn't want to turn up at the man's club like a needy wreck. He had no idea what the parameters were of their relationship … dynamic … three-night stand or whatever it was. But he was sure it would pass, along with the sickness haunting him.

Food had lost all taste and flavour, and by day four he couldn't stomach it at all.

The doctor could find nothing wrong with him. The only thing he could comment on at all was, embarrassingly enough, sexual frustration.

It was then that Harry started thinking.

It was now Friday night and the Devil's Playground was heaving with even more people than normal.

He turned down a complimentary cocktail, not particularly wanting to be sued if he vomited all over the fine upholstery. It took an excruciating hour (where he half wanted to just go home, but not as much as he needed to see Riddle – for professional reasons, obviously) until he was allowed into the VIP room.

"Harry," Riddle greeted, lounging in his usual spot and waving a hand to dismiss the dark-haired woman and the blond man who had been sitting with him. "You look dreadful."

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"Whatever the killer's using," he started once the man's colleagues had left, "I've been exposed to it somehow. Don't worry, it's not contagious or we'd have a much higher body count already." He sat down on the sofa opposite before he fell down.

Riddle's head tilted.

"I think it's a matter of repeated exposure," Harry continued, gripping the edge of the seat tightly to stop himself from ridiculously edging closer in his current state, and to keep himself steady. "At first I thought it might be the incense you use being tainted somehow, if it wasn't a substance in the drinks … but whilst the exclusivity in The Orchid Lounge and The Devil's Playground accounts for why more people aren't affected, it would not explain why you're not sick … why are you smiling?"

Everything in Harry craved contact. Something in his chest spasmed.

"Come here, Harry," Riddle murmured. "It seems like an age since I last saw you."

Harry blinked, and half felt he should protest. Because he was ill. And possibly dead if he didn't figure this out soon, so as handsome as Riddle was, they really needed to concentrate on the case and – and somehow he'd already crossed the room.

Riddle's arms wrapped cold around him, as he was pulled to the other's torso.

Something nagged at his mind again; as much as he could think straight anyway, or think of anything at all except how nice Riddle felt pressed against him, and how good he smelled. Like the incense.

"What's happening to me?" His voice was hoarse. "What have you done?" He could have kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. He'd already identified Lord Voldemort as a link and –

"I am not causing these deaths and disappearances," the man said against his ear.

Harry still felt he should get up. But it was difficult to get his limbs to co-operate, when he was the most comfortable he'd been all week. All night, tossing and turning unable to find a good spot, but right now he could have melted.

"You know what's happening."

"I know everything that happens in my domain. There hasn't been another body, has there?"

Riddle's fingers stroked through his hair, nails gently teasing the scalp every so often. It was mortifying, the way Harry craned into the touch. Unable to help it. "Would you like an explanation, Harry? I can give it to you if you ask nicely."

Riddle's hand crept beneath his shirt again, as he was still trying to organize his muggy thoughts. The fingers felt blessedly cold against his fevered skin. Harry's teeth gritted to bite back what could maybe perhaps be classified as a bloody whimper and what the absolute hell was this?

"Tell me."

"That's not asking nicely," Riddle chided. Fingers dragged up his torso now, lips pressing into the racing pulse at the side of his neck. Harry shivered.

"Fuck you."

Riddle laughed – a sound of absolute delight, followed by a nip to Harry's throat.

"Oh my, I knew I liked you. It's impressive that you're still this coherent after this long, truly. I could tell you just for that. Listen carefully now – and let me help you out of that shirt. You look rather flushed."

The glide of material seemed something distant, dreamlike, in comparison to the mouth still against his throat. God, his head…

"Do you know what an Incubus is?" Riddle asked.

"That's insane." Harry blinked, connecting the lines and the dots easily enough, even if it was, well, absurd, from what little he knew of mythological creatures. Which was, in this case, essentially: sex demon.

"Is it?" Riddle returned. "The police would certainly think so, I suppose. If you approached them."

An entirely different sort of chill went down Harry's spine at that oh-so-casual comment.

"Nonetheless," Riddle had that damnably amused tone of voice again. "Assuming Incubi exist … one could _assume_ that the first time a mortal beds an Incubus is harmless. Merely an unforgettable night for the human, the demon's feeding doing no lasting damage."

Unforgettable. Harry had the awful impulse to laugh. Riddle's fingers pressed beneath his chin, tipping his head back so that the man could capture his lips. The man … demon, apparently … god, he couldn't call him a demon. That was just mad!

Riddle carefully adjusted his glasses again, curling Harry to face him on his lap, knees settling on either side of the other's thighs.

"The second time would bring about the first signs of the withdrawal effect," Riddle purred.

Oh bloody fuck.

"Chill," Harry whispered. "Nausea. Symptoms escalating."

"Depending on the strength of the mortal and the proximity of the Incubus in question, yes," Riddle kissed him once more, slow and indulgent. "You're very strong, Harry."

"Fuck you so much," he hissed back, livid. "How many times, _assuming_, until I end up in a body bag on the street corner? Four?"

"Oh, it's not that simple, regardless of what a google search might tell you. But myths never get everything right, do they?" Riddle laughed softly. "The myth would have you believe that each time we feed … pleasure and desire being our diet of choice, so to speak … that we drain life."

"That's not true?"

"It's withdrawal from us that causes death. For example," Riddle's hand brushed the front of his trousers. "If I were to leave you alone now, you would, how did you put it? Ah, _wither_. The longer you go without, the worse it gets. Much like an addiction."

"So you did kill them," Harry spat. "You fucked them, and then you tossed them."

Riddle tsked.

"Oh no … they're not mine. I told you I wasn't behind that. Not really. Generally, I only feed on a person once. Far less hassle. Three times a thrall, strength regardless. No turning back. No recovery."

"A thrall?" Harry managed.

"I'm sure you'll find out. Intimately."

"The murders are other Incubi then?" Harry's brow furrowed. "What, are your clubs some kind of hunting ground for them?"

"Essentially yes. I do cater to specialized clientele, yes. Most of the time, when they abide by my one-feed rule, it simply makes for one _hell_ of a party. Human and demon alike. Disappearance – thrall connection. Murder – rejection," Riddle hummed.

Bloody hell.

"You bastard."

"Don't worry. I dealt with the culprits. It won't happen again, certainly not on my property. It's bad for business, you see."

"So, of course, all that's left is for me to die, so no one will find out," Harry said. He gave a hollow, disgusted sort of laugh. "No more of those awkward questions."

Had he mentioned that he could have kicked himself? Of course, even when he suspected something was wrong, how could he have ever expected this? And how the hell could he have guarded against it? Who in their right mind would jump to the conclusion of a bloody _demon?_

"That was the initial plan," Riddle agreed. The git gave his aching length a squeeze, making his breath hitch. "It would be easy."

The worst part was that it was difficult to bring himself to move away either way. Maybe because Harry knew withdrawal would inevitably kill him, and that it was only the cocoon of Riddle nuzzling against him with an obscene parody of affection that kept the sickness back. The pain and the nausea, the clamminess like there was no warmth left in him.

"But then, I decided I liked you, and would rather keep you."

"Lucky me," Harry snapped.

"Being kept by an Incubus is very enjoyable, I assure you. There are worse fates."

"Aside from the fact that if I don't fucking sleep with you, I die of your creepy demon withdrawal?" Harry shook his head, a wild glint to his glazed eyes.

"You have such a way with words," Riddle replied dryly. "But yes. You seem to be keeping up, despite your current condition."

How did this happen to him? How?

"Exactly how long do I have?" Harry growled.

"It depends on the person." Riddle made a mock thoughtful sound. "As I said, you're remarkably strong. Or stubborn. Not that everyone would even survive to thrall stage, and even then they would have been on their knees before me, crawling desperately at this point. Every twenty-four hours would keep you functioning without negative effect."

Twenty-four hours. Jesus.

"I meant how long until I die."

"You are not going to die. I told you, I'm keeping you."

"What are you going to do, tie me to your bed?"

"Oh, at some point probably," Riddle smirked. Harry loathed the hot shudder that sunk into his blood at that. "But I won't keep you prisoner. I don't have to. You've no doubt noticed already that you feel compelled to seek me out. The longer you wait, as I said, the stronger the effect, until you're so mad with want that all you'll be able to think about is how to please me. You'll be practically rabid just for a kiss."

Harry swallowed.

"You're lying." He had to be lying, right? And yet, if being this close alone had already soothed the urge to throw up…

"Walk away then." Riddle shrugged, watching him with those dark eyes. "And we'll find out how long I can keep you begging prettily when you come back."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to consider his options, somehow, through the hum and throb of need.

"Wouldn't you starve if I left?"

"I can find someone else easily. But, as I said, I've decided I rather like you. And I'll have you either way." Riddle's nails dug into his chin. "You're _mine._"

Harry eyed him carefully.

"Until you get bored."

"You've managed to be interesting so far – but yes."

Fuck. Bloody fuck. Harry tried to think through a plan of action again, but his mind kept diverting to the movements of Riddle's mouth. To the way his hand brushed over Harry's skin. To the way even the smallest shifts on the demon's lap reminded him of want all over again. He certainly didn't want to just surrender to this though.

Well, he did. But he didn't.

"And the killings will stop," he verified.

"Case closed, Detective Potter," Riddle said, with what Harry could only consider unholy satisfaction. His jaw clenched. After a moment, Riddle kissed him again, harder this time. "It's really not so bad. As I said, it's even very enjoyable for you, as you certainly weren't complaining before. You keep your own mind and sense of self too, as well as your independence, so long as you're not so foolish as to deny us both in some misguided pride. There are, as I said, worse fates."

Harry knew he had a thousand more protests than just that in his head, but – unsurprisingly in light of new information – he was struggling to think of them as Riddle's lips glided along his shoulder.

He supposed that was rather the point. An Incubus, from what little he knew or had just picked up, was a creature and incarnation of desire. Everything about Riddle was designed to lure him and trap him, to tempt and corrupt. He wouldn't have been surprised if the demon's appearance changed to cater to the preferences of his victim of choice. It would explain why the bastard could seem so bloody perfect, even when he did this. Even when Harry suspected that the only reason the demon hadn't kidnapped him and kept him a more literal prisoner, was because he didn't have to. As Riddle had said.

He wetted his lips, mouth dry. His head was spinning still.

Either way, Harry had lost his freedom, somehow, between the first smile and the first kiss and now.

"Just give up," Riddle urged softly, a peculiar gleam of scarlet visible in his eyes now as he stroked Harry's cheek. "Just give in to me."

The Incubus' hips rolled up, slowly, just to unravel him more.

"You tricked me into this," Harry accused.

"I'm a demon. Were you looking for moral integrity?" Riddle's lips twitched.

Harry glared, shoving himself away with great effort. Riddle watched him, head tilting once more.

"Not even something to substantiate you whilst you try to run?" the bastard smirked. "A kiss is not going to keep you going for long. Go too far, Harry, and you won't get back in time. It would be such a waste."

There had to be a cure. Something to lessen the effect. He refused to live life on a leash.

Riddle didn't even look like a demon! Though maybe his appearance was masked. Or something.

Harry wanted desperately to walk out, for a decisive exit – but common sense decreed that he should at least give himself a good head start. Or maybe Riddle was just in his head, whispering that it was common sense like the devil he was.

Still, Harry needed food, water. And to be able to stomach those, he suspected he needed Riddle. Damn him to hell. It wasn't like before, or even how it had been at the beginning of the week. The kisses had revived him a little, but they certainly weren't enough and those eyes were telling him so. He swayed unsteadily on his feet.

Riddle crooked a finger.

"Come on. There's a good boy, let me help you."

"I'm going to bloody well destroy you for this."

Harry latched upon Riddle's lips like a drowning man.

* * *

His new thrall was lovely like this.

Tom had him frustrated and needy for bordering on three hours now.

He'd noticed the first time that Harry wasn't the submissive type, and he'd quite liked that considering most fell to their knees before him at a touch and a whispered promise. It was refreshing.

But he liked him like this too; eyes glazed and pupils blown as cavernous and hungry as any demon's. Every inch of him straining towards the necessity of his own pleasure, hands bound and legs spread as Tom took the time to catalogue every quivering part of his new acquisition.

It had been an examination long enough coming.

Tom had come to the conclusion that Harry suited his bed. The green silk really brought out those poisonous eyes. All in all – a veritable feast, laid out just for him. One he fully intended to indulge in.

Harry's lips were permanently parted by harsh pants, soft moans and gasps and everything else that he could wring out until Harry was an exposed nerve of twitching pleasure.

He'd written himself across the human's skin, painting his insides, wrapping his senses up and ensnaring them until there could be no doubt on the matter of belonging.

"Please …" It was the prettiest thing he'd ever heard.

Harry craned towards him, back arching. His voice was a desperate, cracked voice, roughened over time.

Tom mouthed against flushed skin, palms smoothing over trembling calves as he lavished attention to hip, and inner thigh. Anywhere except where it was most needed, really.

Harry's eyes fluttered.

"Hmm. What was that?" He smiled against tender skin, feeling thoroughly satisfied with himself.

He was a creature of insatiable appetite, it was true. Voraciously hungry, always needing the fire dancing in somebody's veins to warm him up and make him feel alive again.

Harry's arms jerked with the desire to reach out. To touch, and take, and savour. Tom paused to stroke a thumb over his cheek, relishing the way Harry's head lolled towards him, nudging against him. Paused a moment longer to press their lips together, able to taste the desperation, the hovering pleasure so drawn out that it became a form of torture in itself.

It was like a slow-cooked roast. He could practically see the heat rising from the boy.

"Yours …"

"Good boy."

In the low flicker of light, some might have sworn to have seen the imprint of dark wings shadowed against the wall as he claimed his ill-won prize.

And he was never letting it go.

* * *

_A/N: I don't know what this is. But the idea of Incubus Tom wouldn't leave my head, and I had a lot of time to kill. Incubi, as creatures, come with for me still largely unfamiliar writing territory, so um, bear with me? Marked as complete, but could be a twoshot because I have various other perhaps more lighthearted scenes that didn't make the final cut, which is hence why it is not in Twisted. But we shall see. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I'm going to hide now, because I feel inexplicably nervous even if it's not exactly risque or anything like that. *I'm slightly pathetic, okay?* Anyway, if you can think of a better summary too, feel free to make suggestions!_

_Betaed by Lydia_Theda, thank you! :)_


	2. The Devil's Due

"An exorcism, really? Oh, you're adorable. And is that a cross?"

Harry was panting across the room from him, flushed – his normal delectable state of being torn between hatred, rage, frustration, and undeniable need. He was beautiful.

Tom strolled leisurely forward, utterly undeterred by Harry's impassioned attempts.

The boy glared up at him with glazed eyes, muscles trembling as Tom reached out, caressing Harry's cheek first, before his hand curled around the cross so as to haul the boy up.

He painstakingly adjusted the chain so he could drop a kiss to the hollow of Harry's throat, before nuzzling for the joy of the hitch in the human's breath. He had the boy pressed up against him, on his toes with the yank of the crucifix around his neck, and wound his fingers into dark untamed hair, smiling.

"The power of Christ fucking compels you," Harry muttered angrily, one more time.

"Exorcisms only work on the possessed." Tom wetted his lips, eyes hooded. "Though I'm hurt that you'd want to get rid of me so badly."

It had been two days since he'd told Harry of his nature, and of course he didn't _have_ to seek his lovely new thrall out, but it was rather entertaining. Delicious. He silenced the next response with his mouth, fingers unforgiving as he tugged at Harry's scalp.

He was rewarded with a low groan, which tasted like the finest ambrosia in his mouth.

He had time to mould Harry. Coax him into his new purpose in life, because he wasn't so stupid as to think that the boy's behaviour on severe withdrawal was going to be his behaviour the rest of the time. And whilst running around after his own thrall was utterly beneath him, such struggles were specks of dust in the overall picture, considering his long life.

"You're not possessing the real Tom Riddle then?" the boy managed, breathless and husky. Tom raised a brow, knuckles pressing into Harry's throat as he continued to hold him craned forward on shaky toes.

Hands grabbed hold of his arms for balance.

"Oh, you finally bothered to learn my human name. It took you long enough. Just as well; 'Riddle' can be a bit of a mouthful, and as amazing as I am … considering my species, 'oh god' might not be the best alternative for you to cry out." The boy spluttered.

He ignored the question as rhetorical, considering what he'd just said.

Instead, he sought out one of the more sensitive spots between Harry's neck and collarbone, teasing out another hoarse groan as the human's grip tightened further on his arms, nails digging in.

"Where did you come from, then? And how come you look so human?"

Tom let the cross slide out of his grip so that Harry could find his feet again.

"I should definitely leave you tied to my bed for a while. You are far too coherent for my tastes, to be asking so many questions in this position," he said. Really, the boy should have been swooning already.

While part of the novelty he was enjoying with Harry was that fiery strength – that even his own kind couldn't entirely quench – he had a feeling that it could backfire on him if he wasn't careful.

That, and Harry completely at his mercy was an exquisite sight.

The boy paused in whatever he'd been about to say, eyes narrowing, warm breath puffing over his mouth.

"You're giving me that look again." Harry's voice went a wonderful octave lower.

"What look?" He pretended innocence.

"The one where you're deciding what to do with me, like you're taking me apart in your head and imagining all the ways you can put me back together again."

_Oh, he liked that._

He attacked Harry's lips again, leeching out the heat and the air, feeling his human all but crumble against him, jellied despite his best efforts of defiance. He liked that too, the rush of power it gave him, and the way Harry fit, warm and compact, against his chest.

"What can I say?" he returned. "Everyone knows that a healthy diet requires variation."

Harry snorted a laugh at that, before looking like he wanted to slap a hand over his mouth in horror of the possibility of amusement. Or being anything but the innocent, unwilling victim of circumstance.

"I'm wondering if I should be worried."

Probably.

"You're thralled to a demon. You should have been worried two days ago."

Harry grimaced at that.

"Do we really have to call it a thrall? 'Human lover' sounds so much nicer, and it's less dodgy. Or, just, you know, lover. Acquaintance with benefits."

Tom blinked.

He wondered if he should be worried.

Probably.

He pulled Harry into another kiss before he could keep talking, hand creeping up his shirt.

* * *

So, being 'thralled' to a demon wasn't as bad as Harry had initially thought it would be.

Riddle was admittedly a fantastic kisser, among his numerous other talents in that area, even if Harry sometimes seriously wondered if the bastard was physically capable of thinking of anything else.

He didn't think he'd spent a single time in Tom's company in which he didn't end up shoved against a wall or something. Not that it was doing his libido any harm – if anything, he was half convinced Riddle's strange Incubi charms triggered it automatically by proximity. It was that, or his self-preservation had kicked in – considering what happened with withdrawal.

He supposed he should be thankful that he couldn't get pregnant.

Either way, he should have expected this was coming. He'd been lucky that he lasted three weeks, and even then it was probably because they all led busy lives and he'd been knee-deep in investigations of various affairs and other things.

"So …" Hermione was obviously trying (and failing) to be subtle. "Who is she? Or he?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, please." She gave him a_ look_, before glancing at his neck. Harry scowled and adjusted his shirt collar. He really needed to talk to Riddle about that at some point, because it certainly never occurred to him at the time. Colour flushed to his cheeks.

Still, he considered his options.

Obviously, the truth was out of the question – even if they believed him, he wouldn't put his friends in danger like that. Frankly, he had no idea how Riddle would react to his secret being out to more people, and whilst the bastard had affected a generally charming demeanour around him, Harry wasn't stupid. Tom was a bloody demon. He'd knowingly and remorselessly manipulated him into a thrall-bond relationship, there was no way that Riddle was all sweetness and flirting. As the bastard had indicated, there was no moral integrity to be found.

Harry just hadn't had the opportunity to see the rest of him yet. It wasn't like he met up with the other for meaningful and sincere conversations about life. The git seemed to enjoy teasing him, but the rest was simply whatever comments Harry could get in edgeways, occasional exceptions allowed.

But if not the truth, then what? He wasn't eager to put anyone he cared about in the path of the Incubus, considering he knew the dangers now. Saying nothing at all, though, would just be suspicious, and further provoke Hermione's curiosity.

"It's, uh … I'd rather not talk about it yet," he hedged.

"Are you okay?" Hermione suddenly seemed rather more concerned, hand on his. Harry nodded quickly, mentally cursing.

"Yes! Really," he added hastily when she remained unconvinced. "I'm just … figuring things out with, uh, him. But I'm fine, honest." He could tell by her expression that he needed something more to tell. "It's – you remember that guy from my 21st? Riddle?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "No way. How did that happen?"

"Still figuring that bit out," Harry half joked, relieved to see her laugh.

He really needed to find a way to break out of the withdrawal cycle, sooner rather than later. Sure, it wasn't as bad as it could be, but he also didn't fancy sitting there looking pretty and waiting for Riddle to get bored and kill him.

After all, if thralls lasted that long, then there would not have been disappearances in the first place.

* * *

_But sometimes, just sometimes, bathed in moonlight with Tom's arms wrapped tight around him, it felt like it could last forever._

* * *

"I see your new toy appears to be keeping you happy, my lord," Bellatrix remarked, casual tone barely masking her questioning disdain as to why he would be so satisfied with a boy like Harry. Or any human, really, when humanity was a species so below their station in life.

"He amuses me," Tom allowed. "He's looking for a way out."

Normally, even if a thrall could theoretically spend time elsewhere, they didn't want to. Harry was a curiosity. And, on the offhand chance that a thrall could and did want to, it was the prerogative of the Incubus to make sure they knew their place.

Bellatrix cackled at the mere possibility of such an escape, even as she studied him closely. None of the others, even Malfoy, would dare to so much as comment on the situation, let alone his behaviour.

"Where is he tonight then? I'm surprised that he's not here. Harry Potter, wasn't it?" she asked, head tilted. "You're being very indulgent with the boy."

He gave Bellatrix a warning look. She pouted in response, but immediately backed down and slunk off towards the dance floor.

Tom took another sip of his drink, the hunger already starting to lick its way up his bones like kindling.

* * *

_They wondered at his leniency. He wondered himself._

* * *

"What do your other thralls tell people when they have to explain how they know you?" Harry murmured. His eyes were closed, and he felt boneless with lingering pleasure. Tired, of course. But he'd noticed that he was always tired for a bit after seeing Tom. He imagined it was a side-effect of being fed on – there must have been a reason people believed the whole affair drained life.

He could only hope Riddle hadn't been lying when he said it didn't.

Tom's lips paused on the back of his left shoulder for a few brief seconds, before he continued his lazy kissing. It would have been like post-cuddling, Harry was sure, except he was also convinced it was just Tom picking at leftovers, considering that by all standards (although he tried not to think about it) he was the demon's dinner.

"Their relationships outside of me don't tend to last long enough for any particularly thoughtful explanation to be required."

"Seriously?" Harry's head tilted sluggishly, cheek pressing into Tom's sinfully soft pillowcase. "That's not helpful." Not helpful was putting it bloody mildly.

"The system isn't designed to be helpful to humans," Riddle said. Harry opened his eyes so that he could scowl at the demon curled up next to him. Something squeezed rancid in his stomach, and his fists clenched.

He focused on practicality, rather than the hot surge of rage flaring inside of him.

"Well, I need to tell them _something_, and I'm guessing you're not into the idea of me telling people the truth."

"You would be prettier with a tongue, yes." Riddle smiled. Harry huffed and shut his eyes again, simply unable to bear looking at the bastard. He guessed that comment was supposed to be an indication of what would happen if he did go around blabbing.

"Not helpful," he mumbled again through gritted teeth. It was just as well that he was tired, or he was certain he would have punched the demon.

Tom was silent for a while, soft kisses lulling, hands warm against his now cool skin. Harry knew he should be getting up and tottering off back to normal life, because he still had files he was supposed to be reading tonight for a new case – but he was comfortable here, and moving seemed like far too much effort.

Or at least, he was physically comfortable here. All jokes aside, the whole concept of a thrall left him deeply uneasy. He'd always been one for equal relationships, and this was anything but that.

At least he hadn't fallen asleep on Tom's lap again straight after, considering that would be the prime time to establish anything, if one was going by the possibility of Riddle being in an indulgent mood.

He could feel the weight of the demon's eyes on him, even in his half-slumber.

"Boyfriend. That is the word in current use, is it not?"

It took him a moment to realize Tom had spoken, that he hadn't just fallen asleep, let alone for what he actually said to connect with Harry's mind. But when it registered, his eyes snapped open again.

"… Are you my boyfriend?" The word didn't seem to fit Tom, certainly, but something odd squeezed in his chest. It was the warmth that made him panic. Withdrawal and want was a very different thing to possible affection and anything that came with more strings attached.

If he actually started considering Tom in that way, then he was damned. He couldn't allow himself to give up on the possibility of freedom. He couldn't allow himself to stop _wanting _freedom, when to want Tom Riddle seemed to be to love a prison.

It had been a month.

"You asked for a convenient explanation. You may also use lover."

Harry blinked, studying the demon for a moment. The rage twisted all over again, the rage and the confusing things that he wanted to shove far, far away, to revert them back to the happy stage of one-night stand with all the possibilities that were never going to happen contentedly in front of them.

Because he wasn't Tom's boyfriend. He wasn't his lover, no matter the 'convenient explanation' or however much Harry wanted to mask the terms of blatant power and appetite. In Tom's world, he was an easy meal ticket. Nothing more. Never would be.

"What if they want to meet you? I mean, Incubus aside, you're Lord bloody Voldemort." Which just led to a different track of problems. Such as the press commenting on an influential businessman dating a 21-year-old private detective. This was a mess.

"This is why it would be so much easier if you'd act like a normal thrall," Tom replied, watching him with an unreadable expression. "Withdraw from society, and come and live here. It's not like you need a job. I wouldn't let you starve; you're no use to me dead. You'd live a very comfortable life."

"That's the most charming proposal to move in I've ever heard," Harry snapped. "Fuck off. Moral of the story is not to take random humans who have done nothing to you, and decide to mess up their life. Payback's a bitch. You can answer all the awkward questions now."

He shoved himself off the bed, half in his clothes as Tom _laughed._ The moment after that, arms had wound around him and pulled him back into soft sheets and Riddle's chest as the other kissed him again.

"Oh, I could definitely get used to you, Harry…"

He suspected this whole situation looked very different from Riddle's side of things.

* * *

Life progressed, largely without change. He worked, he played, Potter came over or he went and found his erstwhile human.

Thralls were an interesting – and to some, outdated – concept in modern day feeding. With less strict social scenes, and so many easy targets, there was no real necessity for them when a meal could be found most nights without much effort at all.

But there was something to be said for the tradition.

It wasn't less effort even if he didn't have to hunt, because dealing with one person for any length of time started to lead to strings being attached. But it had its rewards.

There was only so much one could taste on a one-night stand after all.

Maybe Potter was just amusing, but he found he quite liked what they had. Certainly, he hadn't grown bored yet.

He didn't _need _him, but somehow he wanted him more than ever.

* * *

Exorcism didn't work. Something had to, it just had to.

It was that which led him to Professor Albus Dumbledore, a renowned lecturer in the study of the Occult, with a specialization in Demonology.

Harry wetted his lips, staring down at the page, before slipping the telephone number into his pocket quickly.

* * *

"Change. We're going on a trip."

Riddle strode into his flat without asking permission, having just thrust a silken shirt into his chest. Harry was left blinking, and let the front door swing shut.

"What do you mean, we're going on a trip?" he demanded. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm busy."

"Oh, but I'll be simply _lovesick_ without your company, Harry," Riddle murmured, making his way into Harry's bedroom and looking around for a bag to begin stuffing clothes in. Even if he eyed them with great skepticism.

Harry grimaced at the words, the reminder of his withdrawal, and at how ironic it was that Tom apparently cared about his clothes so much, when most of the time he was around the bastard, he wasn't even wearing any.

"You can't just drop this on me with no warning," he insisted, fists clenching around the expensive material. "It's not fair."

He understood that Riddle had the type of lifestyle that sometimes necessitated working away from home, but _seriously_, he didn't have to be so inconsiderate about it. As if following after him was the only thing Harry did in his life! It was probably one of the things he hated most about this situation.

"Demon," Riddle replied, as if that excused everything. Harry wanted to go for his throat. His palms itched with it.

"And if I refuse to come?"

"Are you that eager to die?" There was something in Riddle's expression. Challenging, and then something else that Harry couldn't place. The Incubus advanced on him slowly, until there was barely a breath between them and he had to crane his head back.

Resentment bubbled in his stomach. Tom's hand smoothed over his shoulder, a sear of heat that seemed to sink right into his bones and liquify him. The demon didn't blink, and the silence stretched without a witty comeback.

No, he didn't want to die. He scowled and dropped his gaze.

Tom gave a winning smile and pressed the packed bag into his arms, triumphant.

* * *

"Why is the human still alive?" Salazar questioned. The room around them was cool and corporate, so at odds with the sumptuous threads of their personal lives.

"He is my thrall," Tom said calmly, raising a brow as if to dismiss the ridiculousness of the question. Potter's position was obvious enough. But he knew, too, that was not what Slytherin was getting at – and the other demon gave him a cold, unamused look.

"He is too strong. He could reveal us. He has investigated into the goings-on at your clubs already –"

"With all due respect, Lord Slytherin, the situation has already been handled."

Unfortunately, there were other, less pleasing consequences to the disappearances and murders, beyond gaining himself his lovely new thrall. And he was lovely. Lovelier by the day, to his never-ending surprise, considering the general longevity of humans.

He was in danger of actually _liking _him.

"Handle it better, _Tom_." He nearly bristled at the address, the twist of his elder's lips. "I am certain that a being of your capabilities will have no problem finding another snack."

They eyed each other across the conference table.

* * *

So, Riddle's travelling style was admittedly impressive.

The hotel was luxurious, the suite the best one available – larger than Harry's entire flat at home. Everything was paid for and available for his use: the pool, the spa and all of its treatments, the gym, the library, the minibar, and the room had a massive tv with all the channels and he could apparently pick any films or TV shows he wanted to watch.

He knew the bastard was rich, but seriously!

The only thing was, of course, that he wasn't actually supposed to leave their area of the hotel. Riddle was off all day doing his business stuff at another part of the building, and Harry felt alarmingly too much like a pampered sort of boy toy.

Everything went on Riddle's tab, and Harry didn't actually have enough money himself to form a protest. It was bloody infuriating. And somewhat depressing. And it had only been a day so far. His parents had left him some money, but a lot of it had gone into school and starting up his agency. He knew better than to splurge on something like this!

Though really, it should only be fair that Riddle paid, because this was all the demon's fault.

It wasn't like Harry wanted to be here.

"So, what do you want to do?" Tom asked. He was the picture of elegant laziness, if not for the weight of his scrutiny. Harry's eyes flickered, jolted out of his thoughts.

"What?"

The Incubus had just come out of the shower, hair still dripping and ridiculously fluffy all things considering, a towel resting haphazardly around his hips. Harry was personally convinced that the demon was doing it on purpose.

"What do you want to do?" Riddle repeated, like he was being particularly slow. Harry blinked. He couldn't think of a single time, since the whole thrall thing, that Riddle had actually taken his opinion into consideration. Although, if he wanted to be fair to the demon (and he didn't) they still hadn't spent enough time together for such a thing to even be a conversation topic.

He did his own thing. Riddle did his own thing. They met for the necessities of 'dinner', for survival. It had never occurred to him that Tom would even want to do something with him in the evening, which didn't involve the bed and decreased levels of clothing. He'd assumed that was why Riddle had forced him to come along in the first place.

"…do you need me to put a shirt on before asking you a question?" the Incubus added, smirking at his continuing silence. That made Harry react, flaring.

"You're insufferable. No," he huffed. "I just wasn't aware we did … this."

This time, Tom blinked at him. Something seemed to sharpen in his expression. It was the same something that had been on his face earlier, when Tom asked if he was that eager to die.

"Born July 31st. Your parents died when you were a baby, and you were raised by your Aunt and Uncle at number 4 Privet Drive. You like playing sports, and were on your school football team. Decent grades, average B, though no particular academic brilliance. You went through law enforcement training with your friend, but decided to become a detective instead. Abuse cases get beneath your skin, and you got booted from your old accommodation because you took too many jobs on for free. Your favourite food is treacle tart … would you like me to continue?" Tom gave him an entirely too pleasant smile, considering the edge still in his gaze.

Harry stared back at him, eyes wide, at the string of comments.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, a little hoarsely. Tom turned to get dressed, pulling on clothes that were more casual than normal, though still obscenely expensive. "Did you – did you _research_ me?"

He knew Riddle was an influential businessman for a reason, but he hadn't expected the Incubus to focus any extra attention on _him. _Half the time when he talked, he wasn't even sure Riddle was listening.

Tom laughed. Not entirely nicely.

"You honestly believed I didn't pay attention to who I allowed into my bed? I don't eat junk food. Stop making assumptions. I know you're not that stupid." The demon turned, smoothing out a shirt and doing up the last of the buttons as Harry continued to stare at him. His mouth had gone dry. "Now, pick something to do, or I'm going to drag you to do market research – and you don't enjoy clubbing enough to get much out of that."

Harry tore his gaze away from Tom's stare.

"Dinner. I'm hungry. Somewhere outside the hotel. I want to look around."

Plain cruelty would have been easier, because suddenly for all his frustration, it felt like his heart had turned into a live grenade.

"I can get you a private cruise on the Seine. I know a few people. If you want."

* * *

Tom watched Harry silently as the boy took in the city with rapt awe. He was happily clutching his takeout (restaurants were not preferable, when Tom's own not eating anything would raise questions) and babbling about something or another as they walked.

It was the principle of the matter, not attachment.

He could control and tame Harry well enough, make a trophy prettily enough, that murder was not necessary. Harry wasn't a threat to him, or any of his kind. It was insulting to say he was, as if Tom was incapable of handling a human boy. And yes, he considered Harry a boy, which made it worse – the young man was barely in his twenties still.

But getting out of the hotel for a bit was probably a good idea.

Sometimes he thought he should let Harry get a bit more withdrawn between times, because he would be easier to manage.

But that went against the principle of the matter too.

"And you do realize you're staring at me in that way again?" Harry finished suddenly, glancing at him over his noodles.

"What way?" His lips nearly twitched. Harry scowled.

"You know what way. Stop it." There was less venom in the boy's tone than normal.

"I don't," he insisted, delighting in the flush spreading once more across Harry's cheeks. "Tell me."

"You're incorrigible."

"Am I not allowed to enjoy your company?"

"Oh please," Harry began again – and maybe Tom let himself be distracted again for a bit. Amused. Who could blame him? Hedonism was his lifeblood.

* * *

"Excuse me, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry hovered by the door, heart hammering in his chest. He could feel a headache slowly coming on, the flu-like ache in his bones.

The old man, white-bearded like Merlin, turned to face him. For a split second, he looked surprised, and then just kindly.

"Yes. How may I help you, m'boy?"

Harry steeled himself, glancing around. Dawdling and waiting for the room to empty slightly. He could feel the weight of the man's scrutiny. His fingers pressed hard into his arms as he folded them, refusing the growing urge to shiver.

"Harry Potter," he introduced himself. "We spoke briefly on the phone, but I missed our meeting. Sorry. Things came up suddenly, and there was no opportunity to notify you."

The man's expression cleared, even as he continued to examine him.

"Please, come through to the office, Mr Potter."

* * *

Her name was Cho.

* * *

The escape attempts stopped being amusing soon enough, though maybe that was to be expected, considering the escalating situation.

Tom's eyes flashed dangerously as he stalked into the room. It was morning, the early hours that embraced the possibility of dawn. Harry looked like he'd just rolled into bed after a night out with his friends.

He was face down on the bed, head just visible over the duvet, along with one errant leg splayed haphazardly off the end of the mattress. The type of offending limb that children knew better than to offer up in the darkness.

But that wasn't what had the rather less human aspects of his appearance emerging.

He barely made a sound as he crossed the bedroom, crawling atop the human like one of the old paintings of his myth.

Harry did not smell like Harry.

It was, maybe, one of the few faults of his kind: the possessiveness. But it wasn't an issue Tom had faced for a very long time. It was normally all a background thrum, an itch in his brain like a human's desire.

Being with another mortal after having been with one of his kind – let alone claimed – paled by comparison. There wasn't a competition or anything. Harry was by biology addicted, and nothing else could lessen the necessity of a truly powerful Incubus' kiss.

There was no human compensation for it.

And yet…

He bit down hard enough to draw blood.

Harry started awake, flailing in the sheets, one arm lashing out to attack, bleary eyed, turning – and then he froze. The boy's gaze moved over his wings, the nails that sharpened to claws on either side of his head, the eyes that burned scarlet on Tom's face. The terrible, inhuman form of beauty, difficult to look at for any sustained length of time.

"… Riddle?"

He straddled Harry's hips with a deceptive casualness, tore straight through the duvet in one swipe that could certainly slice into muscle and sinew just as easily.

He could hear Harry's heart pounding, a heady symphony. Could barely think straight through the haze of rage clouding him.

"I should kill you."

"What?" The boy was half drunk still, it seemed, struggling to snap to the appropriate level of terror and attention. "I – I don't –"

"Do you have any idea who I am?" he asked, oh-so-sweetly. "The 'lord' didn't give you a clue?"

Harry rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times. "I can see your wings. I did wonder about those. Did it work then?"

"Did satiating your desires with someone else work? No. It didn't." He gave a nasty sort of smile, sharp toothed. "I'm afraid we are as bonded as ever, my Harry."

Harry stifled an insulting yawn, though his eyes flickered.

"So why are you so pissed off? I'm trying to sleep. Can't this wait until morning? You can't be hungry again already."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Which part of 'mine' did you not understand, when you lay on my bed promising it?"

"Negotiations under duress don't count," the infuriating boy muttered. "Anything I say on withdrawal should be considered null and void. Besides, I'm not food. Well, I am to you, I suppose, but it's not like I'm a walking slice of treacle tart. Just 'cause you put it in your mouth, that doesn't make it yours. I'm your thrall, yes. And sure, I'll die if you leave me to withdraw. No, I don't belong to you. You feed off me, I don't get sick. That's our arrangement, isn't it? No strings attached. It's not sentiment, it's symbiotic."

The pillow tore between his claws.

"You can't tell me that some human was satisfying," he hissed. Though that wasn't really the point. Except it was.

"If you're so convinced it wasn't, why are you jealous?" Harry returned, smirk tugging at his lips. Tom nearly snarled.

"You don't seem very frightened, considering I could leave you to die and wither without a second's notice if you crossed me."

The smirk faded, the human actually starting to look awake now. "You could do that anyway. You said it yourself – the second you get bored, I'm dead. My fear makes no difference to the situation. I'd like to think you're too hedonistic to deny yourself."

His eyes continued to burn a livid scarlet.

He should follow through on the threat: leave, and let Harry die. Leave and let him come crawling back to him on his knees, this time with the full awareness of what was happening. Make him beg for forgiveness, plead for the mere possibility of belonging to Tom again.

But that seemed like a form of surrender. A concession that he had to have Harry out of his mind with need before he had even a speck of control over him. Same with using withdrawal as a taming method.

It was a catch-22 he hadn't even realized existed before he met Harry Potter.

He kissed that defiant mouth savagely instead, wrenching out pleasure regardless of Harry's opinion on the matter. A startled sound slipped out of the boy, before hands found Tom's hair and tightened.

The boy kissed back just as viciously, teeth drawing copper, nails raking against his scalp – hips still trapped in the twists of the sheets.

The next second, Harry had shoved his hand between their mouths as he panted for breath. They stared at each other. Tom's eyes narrowed.

"You dare deny me, now?"

"Get off my bed, Tom. You're being crazy," Harry said, staring up at him. His heart was hammering faster than ever before. "You have no right to be angry with me." The boy pushed as if to encourage him to shift. He did, but only so he weighed more heavily on Harry's legs, wings blotting out all light in a cavern of feathers around them.

Harry was starting to look a little uneasy now, and he dipped his head, kissing with deceptive softness this time, hands closing around Harry's wrists to keep him in place.

"Did you know," he murmured into the boy's throat, "that I have been recommended to kill you by my creator?"

Harry froze beneath him.

"What?"

"It would be so _easy_," he whispered, pressing another kiss to Harry's jugular. Soft, featherlight kisses that danced across the human's skin. So gentle, they were a whisper that might not have been there at all. "I could bite through your fragile, _pathetic _human throat in a second."

He did nip down, almost playfully, feeling Harry shudder.

"Tear through your stomach," he continued, voice like velvet. A claw caressed down Harry's torso, the other tightening on the boy's wrists when they lurched in some aborted attempt at self defense. He could see the rapid, frantic rise and fall of Harry's breath, and it was _intoxicating. _He could taste the goosebumps on Harry's skin when his mouth dipped again to lap it up.

For a creature based on desire, fear was not necessary. It wasn't even useful, considering the parasitic nature of his species. But, the Devil knew, it tasted like fine red wine, freshly chilled.

"So why don't you?" Harry's voice, annoyingly, was completely even. And even more infuriatingly, the question brought him up short. Everything was in favour of Harry's death. Everything. His eyes narrowed, and he had the horrible feeling that the silence stretched too long, as he failed to think up an adequate answer to his reluctance.

He could almost feel himself losing control of the situation to the defiant look in Potter's eyes. He'd never wanted to kill anyone more.

Their gazes locked, and Harry held perfectly still. Hands still above his head, though Tom's grip was looser now.

"I don't need to," he said, too late. Though it was true. He watched the flicker of Harry's tongue as he wetted his lips, green eyes blazing with verdant concentration.

"Why does your creator want me dead?"

Maybe he should feel relieved that Harry let the first topic drop, but there was no relief to be found. Not when he could feel some human all over Harry like the insidious spread of food poisoning. Not when he could be holding Harry's intestines in his hands right now, poring over every inch of him, but isn't.

Not when that question seemed like a rather more pointed jab. Because, sure, he didn't need to kill Harry – but by all standards he probably should, out of pure convenience.

"You ask awkward questions." The simplest answer. By the slight shift in Harry's expression, the human garnered the further meanings easily enough.

"Sounds like you need to kill me quite a lot." Light, flippant. Even more of a jab. Muscles bunched, and there was something to Harry's face that he can't quite put his finger on. He'd made a study of the crevices of Harry's defiance, the nuances of his want, and the infinite variations of his pleasure. This was something else.

Something else, like his own inexplicable annoyance when Harry didn't want to willingly spend extra time with him.

It tasted like stardust. Like the aftertaste of an explosion, swirling through his blood, and yet … soft. Soft enough that he could only get a grip on the imprint of the emotion. Reflections of his own, distorted.

He kissed Harry again, with a tender violence.

"There's more than one type of death I could give you."

And sleeping with somebody else certainly warranted one of them. It was like a taint, the wrong flavouring in his mouth that ruined that other thing. The mere thought of hands where only he should be allowed to touch, and hold, and worship.

Harry tensed, pulling away from the kiss again to study his expression. Irritating.

"Which type are you currently thinking of?"

"The best kind."

* * *

_Tom said it like 'I love you.' That was what made it so terrifying._

* * *

Harry was in Professor Dumbledore's office again, feeling awkward and thankfully marginally less ill from withdrawal this time.

"Of course, it all depends on the strength of the individual Incubus we are dealing with. I can see now that he must be one of the stronger ones, if that trick didn't work. It was always a long shot, but I had hoped …" The old man looked troubled, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"So there's nothing I can do?"

"There's always something you can do," the Professor said gently. But something in his tone, in the look in those blue eyes, wasn't reassuring. Harry leaned forward expectantly.

"Well?" he demanded impatiently, when the silence just stretched. "What is it? "

He didn't feel like he had that much time left until … something. He'd seen the look in Tom's eyes, reverent and fierce, when he promised him death like most lovers promised forever.

He wasn't panicking but … he wasn't not panicking either.

"It is largely a moot point," Dumbledore said. "Considering it necessitates the demon in question releasing you from the thrall bond. Though this is only available with the more powerful Incubi, who can control the nature of the connection. How strong would you estimate him being? If diverting to somebody else didn't lessen your bond even a little, he would be mid-level or higher."

Harry hadn't offered any names last time. He wondered if he should be worried about his own reticence on the matter, and the way the thought of being unbonded to Tom sent a cramped anxiety in his gut. That was probably just because of the fact that the bastard was an Incubus.

Nothing to do with Tom, and want, and feelings, could be trusted. He was growing increasingly sure of it. It was all probably just some demonic trick – to synthesise a chemical cocktail of pleasure and sentiment inside of him, like a paralytic to ensure that he didn't even want to run anymore. That was it. Just like that was the reason why kissing someone sweet and kind and very much not-Tom only burned the bastard's face more firmly in his mind.

And even this 'solution' made him deflate.

"He's not going to let me go," he said. He wasn't certain of a lot of things in his 'relationship' with Riddle, but he was certain of that.

But he wasn't thinking about that. He wasn't thinking about wings that were terrifying and altogether incredible, cocooning the whole world away from them. He wasn't thinking about the flame of murder in Tom's eyes, so at odds with the silken caress of the demon's mouth and fingers.

He wasn't thinking of what followed, and the way Tom seemed to make a battle strategy of pleasure, unraveling him like he wanted to see everything inside of him and preserve it carefully between slides of glass so that he could keep it like a treasure.

He wasn't thinking of the way Tom spoke like a promise and a prayer, and the way when morning came he was still there, until he'd rewritten every single cell in Harry's body that had the audacity of belonging to anybody else.

No, he wasn't thinking of Tom at all. Nope.

Fuck.

"You could make him let you go," Dumbledore said, in that same gentle tone of voice. Harry's brow furrowed.

"How would I do that?" It didn't feel like he could _make_ Tom do anything, when the bastard's mere presence seemed to consume him with the exact opposite. When he was with him, he didn't want Tom to let go. Ever. He didn't want him to look at anyone else, and the thought that the demon had other thralls made him want to kick something.

Maybe himself. Hard, in the head. Because that was just ridiculous, and maybe kicking himself would knock some bloody sense into his own thought processes.

This wasn't sentiment. It was symbiotic. Parasitic.

"An Incubus cannot sustain themselves very long without feeding," Dumbledore said, quietly. "That's why they developed withdrawal in the first place."

Harry's eyes widened in realisation.

* * *

_Your thrall has been keeping bad company. You're slipping, my lord._

* * *

Harry hated publicity, and honestly, navigating things with Tom was difficult enough without everyone else knowing and commenting on it too. Especially considering, unless they were actually aware of Riddle being an Incubus, they couldn't possibly understand it.

He couldn't even talk to Ron and Hermione about it!

But it had to be done.

Everything was in place now.

* * *

The press were a normal part of Tom's life, considering his trade and position. They were like rats – the first marker that something was wrong, when they began to flock to his door for reasons he was unsure of. Plague carriers of some impending bad news.

Lucius normally dealt with it – considering his own species, he hardly wanted his own face circulated widely. It would have made feeding unnecessarily finicky, especially in combination with his unerring youthfulness. People had expectations. And Lord Voldemort was the shadow behind the throne.

"Can you confirm the relationship between Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter?"

He was going to murder the little brat for this.

* * *

Harry was breathing harsh with anticipation.

Tom was crazy. Harry was sure of it, ever since Riddle first decided to barge into his room in the middle of the night, and his most recent attempt of de-thralling crashed to a dizzying end.

The clock on Riddle's bedroom wall sounded too loud.

He'd never seen Tom like that before. So inhuman-looking, and yet … perhaps more human than he normally was, too. Tom was like a decadent horror when he wasn't masking himself. All sharp lines and fire, so at odds with the normal slick persona.

And he hadn't reverted back to his charm either. Harry saw him more than ever now, which had certainly made his plans difficult, and more so – when he did see him, Riddle's hands didn't leave him for a second. Possessive, claiming, and sometimes, Harry even imagined he could feel the claws digging into his skin.

Two weeks, and he still couldn't stop thinking about Voldemort in his fully fledged form, without the facade of humanity. Damn it.

But at least it would soon be over.

It was late by the time Tom got back, probably because he had been busy dealing with all the reporters wanting to hear about this. Not for anything big, but as one of those scandals that always seemed to capture people's imaginations.

It gave Harry just enough time to steel himself, finalize his plans. And wait.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?" Tom seemed to already know, or guess, that he would be there. He strode into the bedroom, loosening his tie as he went. Harry's heart was hammering in his chest, and he swallowed.

"I'm sorry, is this inconvenient for you? I wonder what that's like."

Riddle stared at him. Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, the syringe Dumbledore had given him burning a hole in his pocket.

It should, theoretically, be easy.

It just felt significantly less easy when he was actually looking Tom in the face. Harry held his ground firmly as the demon strode over to him, something distinctly predatory in his gait.

"If we're talking about inconvenient things, I'd say, right now, that your continuing existence is one of them. It's becoming a habit."

Tom reached the bed, fingers pressing him down hard into the mattress as lips promptly crushed down against his mouth too. His own hand curled automatically into Tom's hair, and maybe he was being fanciful, but something in their kiss seemed to taste like goodbye. As if he, and not Tom, could really be the one to feel such things burst upon the tongue.

He was terrified that Tom would somehow sense the syringe pressed against him, and shuffled back on the bed, which – considering Tom's irate state – didn't go quite as well as he planned, because Tom promptly straddled his waist.

He needed to flip the tables somehow. Pin Tom down instead, so maybe then he'd have a decent shot at it. Tom simply wasn't leaving much opportunity for that though, hips grinding down to lightning-quick surges of pleasure.

The demon's mouth was unforgiving, and as fingers pressed into his side beneath his shirt, Harry tried very hard not to panic again. Not panic, and not get swept up in things, for that matter. Tom was a tornado that devastated all reservations in his path.

The other pulled back just as Harry's lungs were beginning to strain for air, mind fogged. They were both breathing hard. Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"What?" Harry froze.

"You dislike the press. My question wasn't rhetorical. What exactly are you playing at here?"  
Tom – in unnerving contrast to his kisses – sounded _calm. _

Harry wetted his lips.

"It's difficult to dispose of someone when everyone knows of the connection," he replied, with an honesty that surprised even himself. "Boyfriends do tend to be ready suspects in deaths and disappearances, or so I've found in my line of work. Even the best kind of death is one I'd rather avoid."

It was ironic, really, that the time he was most truthful was during his greatest deception. His hand crept discreetly towards his pocket.

Tom stared at him.

"Very clever, Harry." Compliments had never sounded quite so dangerous.

The Incubus' fingertips stroked up his throat, feather-light, and Harry felt dizzy. Would the claws come out now? Veneer of charm dropped forever? Surely not.

Either way, he lurched abruptly to roll them, looking down at Tom a second later. Pressed his knees against Riddle's forearms, to try and pin him, hands free. Then, he leaned down to kiss him again.

Heat and tongue and teeth.

He could feel Tom _smiling _against his mouth, and maybe that scared him more than anything else.

He quickly reached for the syringe again. Pulled the cap off, flipped it around as he'd practiced, bringing it up and – Tom caught his wrist, not even breaking the kiss, eyes still closed. Tugged so Harry ended up flattened further on top of him, both of their hands now neatly pressed into the sheets. Obviously, he'd caught the small sound.

It would have been like he was pinning Tom, to an outsider, but Tom's fingers bit too steely in their grip. Harry only just managed to stop the fragile tip of the needle from breaking against the bed by swiftly contorting his hand so it was twisted flat against the sheets instead.

"Just not quite clever enough," the Incubus breathed. "Gold star for effort though."

Their faces hovered inches apart, too close for even any proper scrutiny. Harry didn't try and jerk his hand free; Tom would have to let go of his wrist eventually. Instead, he moved his fingers carefully, nudging the syringe back, even as he puzzled over the words.

He just needed to get the syringe close enough to Tom's neck now. Tom's other hand was still pinned beneath his knee, mercifully, whilst Harry's free one braced himself up.

He prayed Tom didn't look over at their hands.

"Not clever enough?" he probed warily. Did Tom _know? _His reaction suggested that he had heard the sound of the syringe cap coming off, at least.

Tom craned his head up enough for their lips to glide together, not even a proper kiss, just the anticipating touch of it.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out about your little meeting with the old demon hunter?"

Oh, shit.

He crushed their mouths together – Tom, rather predictably, couldn't seem to resist kissing him back – and began to sit up, so he was resting hands and knees above the demon. Wary of no longer pinning Tom's chest down with his body weight, but – yes – Tom followed him up, still holding that one wrist down.

Harry quickly grabbed the syringe from around Tom's back as they kissed again, able to support himself on his knees now, and … let his free arm drape over Tom's shoulder as he pulled back from the kiss slightly, Harry somewhat straddling his lap now.

"You knew I was looking for a way out," he murmured. He felt dizzy, and adjusted his fingers to get a better grip on the syringe.

"You have no idea what you're playing with." Tom's voice was husky, even in his very obvious rage. Harry's mouth felt bruised. He wetted his lips. Hooked his arm tighter to reel Tom even closer to him. "You don't want to get yourself involved with the likes of Dumbledore. I won't let it continue –"

Harry slammed his hand down.

Riddle jerked as the needle sunk into his veins, immediately rearing back.

But it was too late.

The solution was already rushing through his veins even as he twisted away. Harry kept kissing, ferociously now; close enough to feel Tom's sharp and useless inhale in his mouth.

The look of betrayal on Tom's face, as Harry pulled away, chilled his insides.

The demon's body went limp beneath him, twitching slightly as his grip went slack. He looked to be in a frozen type of pain. Harry hadn't expected it to hurt him – Dumbledore just said it was a solution that could temporarily incapacitate a demon.

He carded his fingers through Tom's hair – as if that made it better – and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, slipping his hand free.

"Publicity goes both ways," Riddle rasped. "You can't kill me, if that was your plan here."

"It wasn't."

He had Tom immobilized now, that was the main point. He swallowed at the glint in Tom's eyes, and stood up, pulling out his phone.

"Then what is?" Tom asked. "Dumbledore didn't give you the venom for bedroom fun."

"You're going to release me from being your thrall."

"Or what?" Tom studied him coldly, prone except for the dart of his eyes and the slight movement of his lips. "You'll keep me like this? Have me taken away by _them?_ People would notice if I suddenly disappeared. You said it yourself."

"No." Harry kept his tone even, confident, holding Tom's gaze. "You'll do it, because you'll starve if I don't."

He could practically see the cogs turn.

"You'd die too, if I died before I released you. Is that what you want?" Lips twitched, cruel, fighting the grip of the drug. "As if you could even let me starve in the first place. The withdrawal won't let you. You _crave _me too much." By the end, the words were a hiss.

An Incubus, Harry had learned from Dumbledore, didn't suffer from withdrawal in the same way. They weren't tied to one thrall, could even have several at once. So long as they fed in some capacity every forty-eight hours, they were fine. Even if they fed on the mere lust of their admirers, which could sustain them if not satisfy.

But they couldn't go more than 48 hours without feeding off _someone_, and a strong thrall could go longer than that without death.

"I do," Harry admitted, with a somewhat self-deprecating smile. He couldn't get Tom out of his head. "But even if Dumbledore can't make you disappear forever without people getting suspicious, two days left hungry on a rack would probably do the trick, wouldn't it? He's not under your spell. He could keep me away from you, too."

For the first time, a flicker of fear passed through Tom's eyes.

Harry should have felt triumphant. He didn't. So he settled for a ruthlessly impassive expression, because he couldn't falter now.

"He'd kill me," Tom said. "I wouldn't come back. You'd end up in prison, and Dumbledore would not lift a hand to help you out."

"Seems like a prison either way then. At least in jail, there's an end to the sentence," Harry replied, fists clenching.

"You … are you really that unhappy with me?" Tom had that expression again, voice soft, before his face hardened. "No. I know you're not, even if you pretend you are. I have seen your heart, Harry Potter, and it is _mine_."

Harry wished his heart would stop hammering. He wished those words didn't tug at something in his chest. He held the phone up to Tom's face in response.

"You're too selfish to go down with me though," he said, staring the other down. "Release the bond, or I'll call him. And either way, you would die. Are you that eager to die, Tom?"

The silence stretched, and Tom's expression was far too still. Still in the way Harry had come to know as hiding turmoil.

Calling Dumbledore was supposed to be the plan. Tom was a demon, feeding on the unsuspecting without remorse. Even if Harry was freed, he'd find another victim, forever and never-ending…

… But he didn't want Tom dead. He couldn't want him dead, not whilst the connection between them persisted and all he could really do was just _want._

"I release you from your thrall."

Harry hit his knees at the quiet words, feeling like his own soul was being shredded from him. He hadn't expected it to hurt so much. Wasn't sure if he'd screamed or not – but, when he came to, shuddering on the floor, his throat was raw.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get himself under control. Trembling, he shoved himself to his feet.

Tom was still drugged on the bed. Helpless. Obviously suffering. But who could expect moral integrity from a demon's lover?

There was a bad taste in his mouth.

Harry took a moment longer just to _look_. His head was pounding, but clearer than it had been in a long time.

Tom was still beautiful.

Harry could see his wings again, as limp against the bed as everything else. A withered magnificence in weakness. He caught himself taking a step forward, stopped his outstretched arm … before finishing the movement and letting one hand caress Tom's cheek.

Dark eyes remained fixed on him, though a soft breath seemed to go through the Incubus like a shiver, lips parting a little as Harry's finger caught on the corner of Tom's mouth.

"Harry …"

"Look at you," he whispered. Then he let his hand drop, shoulders squaring. "I told you I'd destroy you, Tom Riddle. Don't come looking for me."

* * *

_The door slammed shut behind him. _

_But Harry had said it like "I love you."_

* * *

The days passed and … he didn't go after Harry.

Tom watched him, though. Pretended that he didn't feel Bellatrix watching him in turn. He was a creature more attuned to the emotions of others than his own, but … well, he wasn't sure if he was livid or impressed.

Maybe the latter was the reason why he didn't immediately hunt Harry down and tear his still-beating heart out. It was a rare thing to be impressed.

Or maybe it was just suspicious to brutally murder your ex-boyfriend straight after a breakup.

The press had been led to believe it was merely a matter of the relationship being destroyed by its newfound publicity. He was known for his elusiveness, and as part of that it was both true and not considered unusual that having so private a part of his life in the public eye would strain things.

He'd underestimated Harry, that much was clear. It had been a scheme worthy of any demon. Utterly nefarious. Ruthless. Without morals. And yet … independent of the Order, clearly. Harry seemed to refuse to follow anyone, demon or hunter.

He adored it.

* * *

Life had returned to normal.

No more demons, no more Tom Riddle dragging him to far-flung places without a moment's notice. No more kisses that stole his soul.

He had won. He was free.

His friends brought prosecco and expressed their condolences on how things had turned out.

Four days later, Harry was snatched off the street by a terribly cliché black car, thrashing with a bag over his head and restrained. By the time he could see again, he was snarling.

"I told you not to come after –"

It wasn't Tom.

Harry went warily still, trying to think as bile clawed up his throat.

Was this to do with one of his cases?

He'd inadvertently stumbled upon and exposed a trafficking ring earlier that week, as his adultery case and his missing-persons investigation had a collision worthy of Sherlock Holmes.

The man in front of him didn't look like he was involved in a trafficking ring.

Adultery was possible, but Harry didn't recognize his face.

He looked dignified – vaguely contemptuous of everything around him, but refined.

"I must admit, I was hoping it would never be necessary for us to meet like this, Mr Potter," the man said, standing before him with a cool expression on his face. Harry's jaw clenched.

"I can't say it was on the top of my to-do list either. Any chance you'll tell me who you are and why it is necessary?"

He studied the man for clues, getting a funny feeling in his gut. He just sincerely wished he was wrong.

"My name is Salazar Slytherin. I created 'Tom', as you call him," the demon added, at Harry's continued blank expression.

Tom's maker…

Tom's maker who apparently had wanted him dead.

_Fuck. _

"I'm definitely thinking this is unnecessary. I have nothing to do with him, not anymore," he said quickly. There had to be some way out of this, there had to be. Was Tom okay? Had Tom ordered this? He had no idea.

Slytherin smiled, but there was no actual amusement on his face.

"And thus there is absolutely no reason why we would risk the exposure of our kind with your continued existence," the demon said. Harry's insides swooped.

This had to be a joke. Surely this was a joke? He didn't think it was a joke.

His hands tugged viciously at his restraints, but they didn't give.

Escaping Tom was supposed to put an end to this insanity and free him from his death warrant – not bloody ensure it!

"I'm not going to tell anyone. Who would believe me? They'd think I was insane," Harry snapped.

"I imagine Albus Dumbledore would. In fact, I imagine your correspondence is very interesting."

_Fuck._

Harry's pulled at his restraints again, as Slytherin's head tilted with a remote sort of curiosity.

If they wanted him dead, why go through this hassle? Why not just kill him already? Even if they kidnapped him so nobody ever found the body, there was no reason for this.

Unless there was something else going on here?

If Slytherin made Tom, he had to be pretty powerful.

He said nothing, staring back. Slytherin took a slow step forward.

"Where is it that the Order of the Phoenix meet, Potter?"

"What?" Harry blinked. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Don't lie to me," Slytherin said quietly. "It will get very painful for you, very quickly."

"I'm not lying! I don't even know what the Order of the Phoenix is!"

Was this what Tom had talked about, when he said Harry didn't know what he getting into?

Slytherin had a man called in, apparently not wanting to so much as touch him. He definitely wasn't human either – golden eyed, with a large tattoo of a serpent winding down his neck and out of sight.

He immediately began preparing a syringe, after a glance from Slytherin. Harry stiffened. Struggled with the restraints again, but only succeeded in chafing his wrists raw with the effort.

Slytherin's eyes didn't move from him.

"You'll recognize this concoction." The demon gave him that smile again. Harry recognized the liquid immediately as the same drug that Dumbledore had given him to use on Tom. "A personal invention of mine, that your precious Order discovered and exploited. They call it the Demon's Kiss, but I much prefer its original name. Basilisk venom."

There was some awful sense of karma to this, a sick sort of irony. He recoiled, but it did no good, as the man grabbed a tight fistful of his hair to hold him steady.

"I don't know anything about the Order of the Phoenix! I've never even heard of it before!" Harry hissed, eyes wild. He didn't even know what a substance that paralyzed demons would do in a human body, but he couldn't imagine it being good. "All I wanted was my freedom."

The needle plunged into his skin.

* * *

Harry was no longer his thrall. It shouldn't bother him if the idiotic, impudent boy fell off the radar. Tom had no responsibility towards him anymore, once their connection was terminated.

Harry was the one who made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with him.

Besides, the whole situation was getting out of hand. Harry was doomed the second he contacted Dumbledore, and implicated himself even by association with his order of hunters. No demon could well afford to let him live, on the crime of that alone.

Harry had damned himself, and Tom had no reasonable way of protecting him anymore, even if it was still his prerogative to do so. Things had changed.

Salazar would torture him, and when it became obvious that Harry was truly ignorant of any information on Dumbledore's Order, he would be killed.

It took Tom less than an hour after hearing of the disappearance to track him down.

Slytherin – and he wasn't above being appreciative of the fact – was long gone. But Tom knew he would be; his creator hated humans more than anything. He'd come from the days where humans actually could be truly dangerous to a demon, and everybody knew what they were facing.

People were less suspicious nowadays. Didn't believe in the same way. It made it easy.

He left the 'guards' on the floor like chickens ravaged by a wolf. Feathers everywhere, bloodied and sticky. No hesitation for even a second, and no change in expression. A brutal efficiency.

When he saw Harry, he just wished he'd hurt them more.

* * *

Everything felt hazy.

Harry wasn't sure how much time had passed. It felt like eternity. A hellish nothingness where day and night had no meaning and all that did was pain and want. Shivering like a heroin addict, pale and sweating … achingly hard, to smudge mortification on top of everything else, and…

It was even worse than it had been when he was a thrall.

He felt suspended on the brink of death.

The worst part was that there could be no end, when he had nothing to confess. Dumbledore was just a demonology professor, wasn't he? Sure, he knew a little about demon hunting and could offer advice, but Harry hadn't exactly talked to him at length about it.

How could he, when at the time, he'd been too busy with his own demon?

When the screaming started, he thought it must be his own. It took far too long to realize it wasn't, and the second after that, the door had been broken down and … Harry could have melted with relief.

For a demon, in that moment Tom seemed more like some terrible, avenging angel. Blood stained his wings the same colour as his eyes, dripping from his skin as he let what looked suspiciously like a heart fall to the floor with a wet _smack._

Harry watched him as he crossed the room with purposeful steps, finally coming to a stop next to him, leaning down to run his fingers along his cheek. Harry's eyes fluttered closed, but the sensation of soft touch lingered still with a sticky smear of blood.

"Look at you," Tom murmured, eyes _burning_. "Need a hand?"

"What's the catch?" His voice sounded embarrassingly hoarse even to his own ears. Even through the cloud of Basilisk venom, when it felt like the whole world was closing in on him and he couldn't breathe. Everything too close and too far away at once. "I have to be your thrall again?"

Tom laughed, the fingers closing to grip his chin, tilting his head up as lips pressed against his own. It shot through Harry like a bullet. The overwhelming warmth of Tom's mouth, the familiarity of the contact. It tasted coppery.

It was over before he could even sluggishly lean in.

"I would hardly need your permission."

Moments later, he felt the shackles drop from around his abused wrists, and Tom's arms wrapped around him, hoisting him up.

Harry could have struggled, could have insisted proudly that there was nothing wrong with his legs, but he didn't have the energy. The whole room was still spinning nauseatingly around him.

"I don't know anything about the Order of the Phoenix."

"Go to sleep, Harry. The venom will have worn off by the time you wake up."

He slipped into blackness.

* * *

Harry was tucked up in his bed, pale and shivering through a far more artificial withdrawal, when Slytherin came to find them.

Tom didn't stand up, but he let his true form materialize immediately, one large wing covering his human up.

Basilisk venom was a vicious invention – a liquid form of the worst withdrawal one could get from an Incubus' kiss. It took out humans and demons alike. There was a reason they never slept with their own kind.

It was rather like having an incredibly strong allergic reaction. Or too many chemicals at once, like radiation poisoning. He still had far too vivid a memory of being reduced to something powerless as the thrall bond was revoked. Of wanting in the way their prey wanted, a freezing mortal fear and general sense of mortality that quickened his heart in all the wrong ways.

"I'd say you are more under his spell than he, yours," his creator sneered. "How disappointing. I thought better of you, _Tom. _But I suppose your origins catch up with you in the end, don't they? I should have known better."

Tom's eyes flared.

"You do not want to bring this into a fight," he said, very softly. "Times are changing, _my lord. _People love my system, and they will fight to keep it."

"I am _old_, Tom. And you are astoundingly arrogant in your century. Careful, now. We both merely want what's best for our people, don't we?"

"Of course." He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink, as Slytherin took a step forward, knuckles trailing down his cheek.

"Then clearly we have the same problem. The Order of the Phoenix. I'm sure that, without Dumbledore to hold his hand, that your pet human is as harmless as you say he is on the larger scale. Indulgences and allowances could be made…"

They stared at each other.

"I'm all for indulgences."

* * *

Harry awoke feeling groggy and a little sore, but ultimately no worse for wear. He blinked several times, the previous events filtering slowly through his mind.

Tom was curled up next to him.

It was so familiar it was like a physical sting in his chest. And he _wanted_, so he assumed Tom must have thralled him again. It was all for nothing! His insides lurched.

He sat up, slowly, and Tom mirrored him in a flash, reaching out to offer a steadying hand. Harry avoided his eyes. Tom had saved him, but…

"Thralling me whilst I'm unconscious is low, even for you."

Tom made a violent sound. "I haven't thralled you."

Harry's gaze shot to him, mouth abruptly dry. "What? No, but you…"

"I haven't fed on you since our connection was severed." He wasn't sure if Tom's voice was mocking, amused, or just cruel. "What you feel now is entirely your own desires. Most people would offer up a thank you. I could have left you there."

Harry wanted to shrivel up into a ball, head swimming.

Maybe Tom was lying. Except … it didn't feel the same as it was before. Similar, but not the same. He…

Bloody hell. He was not thinking about it. Even if he fancied Tom, nothing could come of it. He couldn't even touch his 'ex-boyfriend' without getting thralled again! He cleared his throat.

"Thank you," he muttered. "For coming to get me, even though, well. How did you …?"

"You're not an idiot, Harry." Tom sounded amused.

Right, stupid question when Harry already knew the answer. Tom knew where he'd gone because he paid attention. He never stopped paying attention, not even for a second.

Harry wasn't sure how he felt about that, but there was an odd fluttery feeling in his stomach.

"Who are the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Nothing that needs to concern you now." Tom flopped down on the bed again, lazily. "Door's that way when you feel up to walking. You'll be back to normal within twenty-four hours. They shouldn't bother you again."

_Oh._

_"_That's it, then?"

"What else did you want?" Tom raised a brow. "I cannot help what I am, Harry. Nor would I want to."

Three times a thrall. Once, unforgettable. He had no idea what it was a second time.

He'd like to think that once wouldn't hurt, but he wasn't that stupid.

"We could be friends." He refused to feel ridiculous for suggesting it, and looked back at Tom almost defiantly. Riddle smirked at him, though there was something serious to his features too.

"I don't have friends."

"Then it will be a learning experience for you." He folded his arms, against the lingering chill of the venom draining from his system.

Tom's head tilted as he considered him. Harry wished he knew what the Incubus was thinking. The silence stretched uncomfortable, and the back of his head felt hot.

"Friends with benefits?"

"Fuck off." But Harry was grinning now. "You're shameless."

"You stabbed me and threatened to have me killed. You do not have the moral high ground here," Tom returned. "Not anymore. Friends it is then, the Devil forbid …"

Harry wondered if he should be worried.

Probably.

* * *

_They lasted two weeks. _

* * *

_A/N: God, this was long. But I suppose it's the more emotional side to go with the first one? Hope it didn't ruin it and that you liked it and that it wasn't a waste of 10000 words or whatever_


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